


Flying home

by hiyashe



Series: the life of the youngest robin [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: I'm Still Bad At Tagging, M/M, there's not much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiyashe/pseuds/hiyashe
Summary: It was time to gain closure - if his begetter wanted or not.





	Flying home

**Author's Note:**

> This story is translated from a foreign language to English, so there'll be mistakes!  
> (I write faster with this method - for writing one day, for translating one day)  
> Hopefully you can enjoy it nonetheless (:
> 
> For people who are interested in pictures of the Super Sons, you can visit my [tumblr](https://hiyashe.tumblr.com/)

It was a long time since someone heard a word from Damian. No sign of life, even his own mother didn’t know where he was. The most surprising thing was that she volunteered to search for him in her own way – spreading the whole League of Assassins all over the world. No one had thought that Talia was so fond of his son but her interest in finding his son could also have an ulterior motive. She seemed to know the scepticism rising among Bruce and the others and assured that yes, she would take Damian under her wing again and no, he could choose again if he had the urge to go back to his family on the paternal side. Bruce was desperate enough to believe her and let her go to search their son. The more the merrier.

The press was fobbed off by Bruce with the explanation that Damian didn’t want to be in the spotlight anymore and was making a world trip to satisfy his inexhaustible thirst for knowledge and his interest in other cultures. The press took this at face value, no one ever asked about Damian anymore.

The rooms in the manor were vacant, most of the time the occupants of this immense manor were in the infamous cave or outside, searching for Damian with no luck. There was no hint of his whereabouts, and now nobody heard of Talia for three years – not that they were concerned about her, but it was somewhat strange.

Not only the family was involved, the Justice League and the Teen Titans were also searching for a trace of Damian’s existence. The former assassin left more friends behind than anyone thought, and this made Bruce broodier. The last encounter with his biological son was certainly not a pleasant one, many empty words thrown around – some more hurtful than intended – and he didn’t feel any remorse until one night he noticed that the window of his youngest son’s room was semi-open, curtains fluttering softly due to the icy night winds of Gotham. With the made-up bed and the lack of personality in the bedroom one could think that this was one of the guestrooms in the manor. This realization made him unconsciously depressed, and he tried to repress this too familiar feeling of frustration – that was something Batman was an expert of.

Damian vanished without a trace, leaving just a short note on the desk of his father. It was his handwriting – they’d checked it already – but it didn’t contain the reason behind his disappearance, not a valid reason at least.

The letter hit them hard. Was Damian feeling trapped with his family? Calling it a phase which he would grow up and come back wasn’t really an option now, eight years without a contact was a too long interval. And why was it so short, without an explanation, or was the answer right under their noses? Important questions with no answer. And with each year they lost a part of their hope to set their problems straight.

They were all the more surprising once they came back from crime fighting – even Red Hood came back to the manor, having pangs of remorse, like the other family members, for not trying to be a brother to him and downright ignoring him. In the cave was standing none other than Jonathan Kent, Superboy and former best friend of Damian. A bitter pang of pain hit them, the last time Superboy was at the manor he was not angry but furious for not keeping an eye on Damian, like every family should in his opinion. But he wouldn’t be the famous sunny-boy if he would hold a grudge against the family of his best friend. Thus, they didn’t expect him to break in in their little haven, leaning with his bulky form against the stony wall, arms crossed, and his glance directed to them. Puberty did a good job on Jon’s body, made his once small frame not unlike his father’s. His hair however was as long as ever, hanging wildly on his head, brilliant maya blue eyes sparking with something familiar. It wasn’t hate or disgust, it was indifference.

“To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”, it was typical for Red Hood to be exaggerating his joy but not with so much spite in his voice. These days without hope tended to irritate everyone’s state of mind.

He didn’t blink, just stared at them to their very soul, no muscle was moving. And then, he was saying: “Dad and I found him.”

The silence was unbearable, but nobody was breaking it. They knew who he referred to, but his expression was too sombre for good news.

“Is he...?”, Nightwing gulped. No, it couldn’t be, not his baby brother and especially not so soon. Even if he would be now twenty-one, he still had the ten years old boy in his mind, who practically bled for need of acceptance.

A head-shaking and his world was bearable again, it didn’t mean that it was okay. It just meant that his world is broken, not yet shattered. Unfortunately, this family never had long-lasting luck.

And without sparing them a word, he headed off to the upper level, the others in trail, forgotten was the no-cowl rule, hoping that in one of these rooms of the manor contained their last family member.

* * *

 

In the dining room was always a large mahogany table with exactly nine cushioned chairs for each member of the Wayne family and everyone had their rightful place. It was a rare occasion that all family members were present but there were more than enough arguments if one of the chairs was missing. Even if since years ago a chair was unoccupied – nobody had the heart to store it away, it would be like to admit defeat.

This once vacant chair was occupied with a somewhat small and lean man, clothed in white; next to him were two other persons with the same kind of clothes only in black. But what put them on the alert were the plain black masks, which hid their facial contours, with white lenses to make them more unrecognizable. These masks were infamous trademarks, they were associated with the League of Assassins. Even though the man in white was the sole with a hood, which overshadowed his whole face, they knew instinctively that he wore the same mask.

They were surveying the man who stood out from the crowd with scepticism; he had to be an important man in the league, if not the most important and quite possible also the world’s most dangerous man. There was no place on earth and other planets which didn’t know about the death of the immortal being Ra’s al Ghul. Nobody knew how he died but everyone was assuming that it had to do with the new leader of the assassins.

Their appearance appeared to be menacing, their postures were erect and ready, but how the leader of the three was just talking with Alfred, he didn’t sound hostile, only cautious and overly polite with a light Arabic accent – which was not surprising if one considered that most of the members were from Middle East.

“A _**yānsūn**_ tea for us, with a dash of lemon if it’s not too much to ask. Without sugar.”

“Certainly, gentlemen.”

Alfred went to the kitchen with a lost expression on his face, to prepare the tea for the oriental guests, and effectively letting Clark, Jonathan and the five newcomers alone with their guests.

„Also…“, began Tim, who usually liked to avoid this situation, “We welcome you, I think.” He scratched his head bashful. It was better to approach gently, otherwise this meeting would lead to a bloodbath – everyone here could fight and some with dirtier tricks than others. The three strangers nodded stiffly and drew their attention back to the only metahumans in the room.

“Thank you for having us.”, said the smallest of the three.

“But first of all we want to clarify that we’re not here to shed blood.”, began the tallest – the third in the trio, “We are not the League of Assassins, this was dissolved years ago. We are the League of Shadows and we keep our word.”

The leader had his hands in his lab, resting slightly on his elbows, keeping his back straight and his head looking forward. He remained taciturn.

“I really dislike disturbing this fantastic conversation, but what do you want here and where’s the demon spawn?”, and that was the reason why Jason should never conduct negotiations. They all were staring at him, his family shocked, the Kents slightly frowning and the guests with their masks, revealing nothing.

“Intolerable.”, murmured the leader unintelligibly to himself.

“What was that?!”

“Something like that would result in punishment, a whiplash or a similar method.”, the tall assassin barged in.

“We’re not in your fucking league or in Arabia-“

“’Arabia’ isn’t a country, **_yalak min 'ahmaq!_** ”, opposed the other subject.

“Did you dwarf insulted me in a foreign language? I swear if-“

„Enough is enough.“, inferred Bruce. „I don’t know how your customs are but in our family nobody gets punishment – at least not physically and not in such extreme dimensions.” Now he turned his attention to the troublemaker of a son: “And you, you don’t receive visitors with such manner. Apologize, now.”

“Surely not!”

“An apology will not be needed, nothing would change the initial situation.”

“So we do have something in common.”

That was the cue for Alfred to walk in with a silver tray with three glasses, several slices of lemon and a traditional teapot to defuse the situation. He poured tea for each guest with such proficient ease and was putting a lemon slice in each tea and served these. While the black clothed men thanked him with “ ** _mutashakir awi_** ” and “ ** _dh min zawqik_** ”, the suspicious man was nodding in thanks and turned towards his tea.

The white-clothed man took just one sip of his hot tea until his smallest subject started to speak: “Unfortunately, our visit will be of short duration, but **_Ra’ïs_** would like to speak with the head of the family, alone. And we don’t mean you, **_syd_** Alfred.”

The mentioned chuckled. They were wily, maybe too wily: they could pose a risk, but that was not the point right now. Instead, it is more about how dumbfounded Bruce looked at the leader, who abandoned his tea, stood upright and tilted his head nearly expectantly.

Meanwhile, Jon was biting on his abused lower lip. Either the conversation between them would run smoothly and peaceful or they would be involved in a fight – the latter one was more likely.

„Fine with me. Please follow me.“

The nearer Bruce was from the library, the quieter became the conversation in the dining room. He had to turn a few time to make sure that his guest is right behind him – that quiet were his steps. That caused him some discomfort, but he tried to suppress them skilfully. He had to gather some information from the head of the League of Assassins – pardon, he meant League of Shadows, any information he spat out could be of great importance. He would do everything for his son, even laying the war aside.

He opened the door to the door smoothly and unveiling a dark room with books dripping with lethargy and grief. His guest examined every in the room to the last detail, as if he was searching something. His glace was resting shortly at the easel until he felt the tension radiating from his host.

“First of all, I would like to know how I should address you.“, because calling him ‘guest’ in his head was exhausting in the long run.

“ ** _Hafid_** for you.“

His voice was particular. It was muffled thanks to his black mask and it sounded clear enough nevertheless. The voice had a slight accent like the other two, but his was more soothing, gentle. However, the pitch of the voice he spoke was bothering him. It was somewhat deeper than the ideal value for such a small body. But who was he, judging others?

“Fine, **_Hafid_**. Let’s dispense with the preliminaries. I want to know where my son is right now.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined the contemptuous snort or not.

“Your sons are all here.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. Was his opposite just playing with him? Wouldn’t be unusual, Ra’s did the same thing with everyone.

“I mean Damian. Jon said that he and Clark found him und he’s probably in the league with you.” He didn’t add the word ‘imprisoned’ out of dereference to the leader. Apparently he could read his mind and crossed his arms provocatively.

“Yes, they did find him. What about it?”

The masked leader smirked inconspicuously, he saw how Bruce’s patience was slowly snapping. It was kind of revenge for all the years in which he spoke in riddles, speaking neither the truth nor lying.

“I want to know why Damian isn’t here.”

“Ah, this question is simple to answer: He doesn’t want to be here.”

“You’re lying.”, his fists were now clenched. It was interesting to see how he was getting angry nowadays.

“Most of the time the simplest answer is the most unbelievable and yet the one that is veracious.”

Bruce was crossing his arms behind his back, in fear that his rage got the better of him.

“Then say: What do I have to do to see my son again?”

“Nothing, because you don’t have a son anymore.“

How would an ordinary father respond, when his long-lost son was standing in the middle of the room, without warning or announcement? He would probably be shocked, standing stiff, before he went towards his son for an everlasting hug. Bruce wasn’t a normal father though, he was two personality combined in one body, what made it difficult to decide, how he should react. But his body knew his thoughts and how he would decide in advance, and he therefore went slowly to his son. His hands were planted on the small shoulders of his son, pinning him effectively to the wall of books. His opposite put up with everything and looked at him with tired eyes. That startled him for a short moment, but his muscular physique didn’t bulge.

“You’re the head of the organisation.”

Quietness, but no silence. One could hear the smack from the floor. Damians left cheek stung and was already red.

„How could you! Not a single word from you except these lousy notes of eight years ago.”, his arms were falling to his side, his torso slightly lowered. “And the only thing you did was killing Ra’s and taking your birth right.”

The boy was still silent but still looking up to him with dull green eyes – patience was generally known as a virtue. He was letting the rage getting the better of him, letting him do whatever he wanted, if physical or verbal, and then he would contribute his thoughts. One of the things he still knew, was that he had to let Batman do whatever he though was right.

And that was going on for a long time. He had to listen for a half an hour how his begetter made accusations, without knowing him. Sometimes he pressed him again against the bookshelf, as if he wanted to underline his statement, but it was in vain. His head was constantly banging against the old books but he put up with it.

It was his way of handling the situation. In the meanwhile, his subconscious wanted to put his son on his lap, no matter how old he was – he was already twenty-one, an adult, and he could never be a child; why was the universe against his son? – and wanted to listen to his soothing voice, how he related his adventures. He really missed his presence and he could not help but be furious. He only partook just two years of his boy’s life, they couldn’t build up a father-son relationship in such a short amount of time of a life span. Everything because his son retired from the world and didn’t talk to him.

Who was the one to blame, who had to apologize? Or the better question: What would happen next? It was impossible to begin anew – even though there was hardly something to make up: of the 3 years he resided in Gotham, a bit more than one third was spent being dead and he himself was lost in time for some months. What remained at the end?

Before someone could say something, two individuals were storming without permission in the library. The bigger one grabbed Bruce by the shoulders and dragged him away from his son while the other one was giving Damian an once-over before hugging him from behind, his head nestling in his soft, black hair.

“Bruce, that’s enough!”, Clark’s voice sounded unusually authoritarian and protective.

Jon was silent by now and listened to Damian’s heartbeat while burying his nose slightly in his spiked hair. He smelled of sunset, dunes and of sweet dates. As long as Damian was fine, he was fine. Who knew, if they came too late maybe Damian would have decided to fight back.

“Are you finished with vilifying me?”, his real voice sounded hollow, free of emotions with a note of fatigue. Bruce’s anger vanished; his boy had a knack for making his emotions boil over – not only the negative ones. Jon pressed him instinctively a little bit closer.

„I’m not here to apologize for my ‚misdeeds‘. Without the persuasiveness of these Kryptonians, I wouldn’t even be here.” He broke away from the warm embrace of his counterpart and was facing him, looking him in his grey-blue eyes which glinted with some sort of hope.

“This is my final farewell.”

And Bruce’s world was yet again falling apart.

Raising hope was easy, but holding on was more difficult than many others would think – not the ‘denial’ kind of hope but having faith. But hope entailed pain, the longer someone is holding it. Hope could have many ends; from bitter disappointment to exuberant joy – unfortunately nobody knew which end one would receive.

**Author's Note:**

>  ** _yānsūn_** : Anise, a common tea in the Golf-states.  
>  ** _yalak min 'ahmaq_** : you fool  
>  ** _mutashakir awi_** : many thanks  
>  ** _dh min zawqik_** : that is very kind  
>  ** _Ra'ïs_** : boss  
>  ** _syd_** : mister  
>  ** _Hafid_** : A male name, means "the protector" (Nord African), "grandson" (Arabic) or "the wise one" (Muslim)  
> 


End file.
